


Profits

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Chains, Collars, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Ficlet, M/M, Master/Servant, Sexual Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-11
Updated: 2020-04-11
Packaged: 2021-02-23 00:03:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23602552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Lindir becomes the spoils of war.
Relationships: Elrond Peredhel/Lindir
Comments: 11
Kudos: 114





	Profits

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DrowPrince](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DrowPrince/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for DrowPrince’s “In one of your fics, it says that Lindir has sometimes daydreamed about being a spoil of war for Elrond. I'd love a fic where Lindir has Elrond act out that fantasy. Bonus points for chains!” request on [my Dreamwidth](https://yeaka.dreamwidth.org/1190.html).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, The Silmarillion, or any of their contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

It begins in the dungeons—or, more accurately, one of the supply rooms adjacent to the kitchens, because Imladris has no dungeons. They aren’t as dirty as they would be in Lindir’s imagination, nor are they littered with bones and scraps of bloodied cloth and other such horrors, because Lindir keeps all of Imladris immaculate. The thick metal collar clasped around his throat is heavy and rusted, a relic bought from dwarves, and the chains that hang from it are just as crude—at least that part is accurate to the fantasy. They fall down his naked chest and attach to the long cuffs around his wrists, both hands locked together. Even his ankles are bound, though not to each other—he could walk if need be. There are a number of surfaces he might be dragged to within the cellar—a spare table under the only window, a three-legged stool in the corner, even one of the four brick walls—Lindir wouldn’t mind being thrown against any one of them. A shiver runs through him at the mere thought, and then again from the cool air around him; the metal is particularly cold against his bare skin. 

He has a thin stretch of nearly translucent fabric around his waist and nothing more. His circlet’s been stripped away, along with any ribbons in his hair and the ring he often wears. He imagines those were plundered by soldiers with no care for him. He pictures their faceless forms, unduly rough as they found him, dragging him out from under a table or behind a chair—he’s a coward, and he would’ve hidden during the battle. The saving grace of that is that they haven’t killed him outright; instead he’s been taken captive and left for their leaders: the spoils of war. 

There’s no one else in the makeshift dungeon with him, but Lindir doesn’t flatter himself enough to pretend it’s because he was the prettiest one. He was simply the only one left—the sole elf that didn’t die bravely defending their home. He survived the journey here by meekly following alongside the horses as told. He was bound to a pole inside the tent each time they stopped for the night, and he never struggled. He had multiple chances to escape but never took them. He was a good servant and remains a good captive. He decides his captors weren’t _cruel_ exactly, because whatever the scenario, they’re still _Elrond’s_ people, and while they weren’t as gentle as his beloved lord is in the real world, they at least weren’t monsters. They delivered him whole to their keep, and he sits on the hard stone floor, waiting to meet his new master.

The door opens, and Lindir’s fantasy must abruptly change. It can be no one else—they’ve taken the entire wing for the day; there are few enough guests to merit it, and none of the residents seemed to begrudge Lindir his mysterious game. Lord Elrond is the one that strolls into the tiny room, resplendent in his best armour. The golden hue is powerful, the intricate weave a mark of its value: there is no questioning that this is a _lord_. But not, as Lindir might’ve thought, a quiet one who sat at home whilst his soldiers did his bidding. Clearly, he was on the frontlines. He would’ve been there, in the hall were Lindir was taken from, and perhaps it was Lord Elrond himself who decided to spare the young minstrel’s life. Perhaps he even had an eye for Lindir, and knew from the start that Lindir would be _his._

Nothing has happened, and Lindir still has to bite the inside of his lip to hold back his moan. He can’t help himself when he’s around his beloved lord—his mind always spirals off into places it shouldn’t. Secure in their privacy, Elrond strolls forward without even bothering to close the door. Lindir pretends it’s because he doesn’t care who sees—Lindir is little more than property now, his exposed body ripe for the soldiers’ amusement. Elrond comes right to where Lindir kneels, and the pointed tip of one metal boot nudges the inside of Lindir’s thigh. He automatically spreads his legs a little wider, breath hitching. The chains rattle for even that subtle movement. He almost wishes he were tied down, because he’s tempted to lunge forward and throw himself properly at his lord’s feet, but that would be unseemly. 

Elrond bends down to curl his index finger beneath Lindir’s chin. He tilts Lindir up to look at him—Lindir’s lashes fall half closed, heavy with want. Elrond is an incredibly, powerfully _handsome_ elf, but he’s especially so in the full breadth of his armour. It’s just a pity that Lindir wasn’t the one who would’ve laced him into it this time—and Lindir’s jealous of whoever did. 

“It is over, minstrel,” Elrond murmurs, voice characteristically soft, yet still commanding. Lindir notes that his name has not been given, because in this moment, he has none: he’s merely a trinket his lord picked off the battlefield. Perhaps if he’s lucky, his master will give him a new one, and Lindir will obediently answer to it without question. “The Woodland Realm has fallen. King Thranduil has admitted Imladris’ superiority and relinquished all in his halls—the absurd tapestries, the eye-sore party pieces, that accursed wine supply... and you.”

For a split second, Lindir can’t help a quick smile. That wasn’t exactly the fictional scenario he had in mind. But he adapts and fights to rein any amusement in. He can see the mirth in Elrond’s eyes and can’t begrudge it—he knows that Elrond is trying for him. If King Thranduil’s parties must end for Lindir’s capture, so be it. Lindir opens his mouth to mourn his fallen king, then thinks better of it—perhaps he shouldn’t speak without permission.

Elrond’s thumb climbs higher, pressing into Lindir’s plush lips and smoothing across them. It takes everything Lindir has not to open up and suckle on it. Instead, he holds back his moan as Elrond bids, “Speak, minstrel.”

Under Elrond’s burning gaze, all thoughts of Thranduil flitter out the window. Lindir groans instead, “I surrender, lord. I submit myself to you fully.”

Elrond chuckles thinly. His voice is so rich, and it rolls through Lindir in waves, even when it’s quiet and short. Elrond notes, “That was rather simple. You have not much loyalty for your former home, then.”

Lindir’s tempted to pout. He’s _immensely._ loyal to Elrond. He would die for his lord without a second thought. He carefully answers, “You are my master now. My loyalty is yours.”

Elrond’s warm look says that was the right answer. Lindir doesn’t know what would happen if he _fought_ his capture—perhaps Elrond would become uncomfortable and free him, and the narrative would take on a very different feel. That might be interesting for another night, although Lindir can’t imagine ever fighting his lord. 

Elrond benevolently muses, “Then you understand, minstrel. I promise to be a good master to you—I will treat you well. ... _If_ you behave.”

The caveat snakes another shiver of delight through Lindir. The chains rustle accordingly, and that draws Elrond’s eye. His hand trails down Lindir’s throat to dance across the collar, then chase the chain to his wrists. He raises them, and it puts Lindir in a position like he’s pleading. Elrond knows the only thing he wants. 

Gaze heavy on those bindings, Elrond murmurs, “I am sorry, songbird. I cannot do this.”

Disappointment overwhelms Lindir for the length of a heartbeat. He can’t say anything of it—of course he understands, and he would never want Elrond to have to continue with anything he found uncomfortable. But then Elrond looks up again and continues, “You are too pretty a thing to be despoiled in the dungeons. I would take you to my quarters and leash you there, for you will no longer have any cause to leave my bed.”

Lindir’s entire body quivers with want. He flushes so deeply that the coldness of the chains becomes a relief. He reverently breathes, “I will go wherever you take me, lord.”

“And you will do...?”

Lindir swallows. “Whatever you wish.”

Elrond’s smile is laced with approval. Lindir soars. Elrond lowers Lindir’s hands and instead takes hold of the chain up close to his collar. A little tug is all it takes to have Lindir leaning up on his knees, arched forward. Elrond bends to brush a kiss across Lindir’s parted lips. When it’s done, Lindir yearns for _more_. Elrond hums, “Wonderful. I was right to keep you.”

Another tug and Lindir clambers to his feet. He follows his lord up to their quarters, desperate to earn that keep.


End file.
